


(unafraid) you can name your scars

by openmouthwideeye



Series: West Eros High [23]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Don't lose faith for your friends. You don't need a thing . . . you are right as you are.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	(unafraid) you can name your scars

**Author's Note:**

> _Thank you_ for everyone who's stayed with me during the interminable wait. I know I've required great stores of patience lately, and I'm sorry. People who follow me on tumblr may know that I've been going through a creative/fandom rough patch. The good news is that I'm getting back on track. And the next chapter is already half written, so there's that. Mostly because it was supposed to be one long last chapter, but then I got all LOTR on the ending and had to split it into two. ~~And there will be an epilogue. But it will be self-contained, so shhh.~~
> 
> A multitude of thanks to my beta Isy, who constantly talks me off ledges, whether she knows it or not. ;) 
> 
> *title and summary from "Now Is the Start" by A Fine Frenzy

“Where’s your boy, Brienne?” The dim backstage lights illuminated Margaery’s patented ‘no BS’ look to startling effect. It shouldn’t have been half so intimidating: the prom queen was pressed so tightly between the other debs that she barely managed to cross her arms.

Brienne sucked her teeth, taking stock of the familiar faces inching out of alphabetical order to overhear her response. She had managed to dodge the question all afternoon, not quite sure she could handle the fallout on top of everything else. But the boys were lining up stage right, and there was no hiding the truth.

She glanced past the glaring spotlight, scanning white shadows and stark black bowties for a face she wouldn’t find. “He couldn’t make it,” she admitted.

Margaery’s weren’t the only brows that scaled pristine makeup to nudge expertly coiffed hair. Her friends materialized on every side; debs she barely knew gathered behind them, hoping for a show. Affront danced around her like the shimmers on Mel’s dress, flashing bright and dissipating when considered too closely.

“You mean he’s bleeding in a ditch somewhere, right?” Margaery asked, while Mel snorted, “Douche.”

“T’ain’t right,” mumbled Jill, frowning at the floor as she squeezed her way toward the front of the line.

Ygritte spared the mousy girl a grimace. The white fringe of the redhead’s dress danced menacingly in the reflected fire of her unbound curls. “Jaime Lannister knows nothing if he thinks there won’t be hell to pay.”

Brienne shook her head, fingers fisting around an intangible plastic sword. She wished for a heartbeat that she hadn’t tucked it into her hockey bag.

“He’s got college interviews.” Jaime had done what he could, and that knowledge bleached the jagged stitching pricking her memory with every pulse of blood.

_Either Cersei’s more important than me or she isn’t,_ Jaime had said. His words echoed back in her own voice. _Either Cersei’s more important than me or she isn’t._

“You haven’t faced social hell to date Jaime Lannister so he could bail on you.” Graciousness fled Margaery’s features. In that moment, Brienne would have no qualms about pitting her against Vargo Hoat on the ice. “You’ve been dreading this for months.”

Brienne shoved down the echo of relief she’d felt when Jaime had agreed to escort her. “I’m not . . . ”—the words ‘in love’ flitted across her tongue; she pressed it hard against the roof of her mouth—“. . . _with_ him for a cotillion date.”

Margarey frowned like Brienne was being naïve, and the sophomore traced the seam of her new white dress. The night would slip away just as fluidly as the fabric beneath her fingers. “A scholarship is more important.”

“Girl’s got a point,” Mel agreed, shrugging when Margaery pursed her lips. “Look to the future.”

Margaery muttered something unbecoming about Tywin Lannister and gold, but Jane Westerling drowned her out with a faint platitude about parental interference. Brienne’s friends turned a suspicious eye on the invading deb, and Jane blushed sweetly.

“Robb says, ‘good luck,’ Brienne.” She glanced around the circle, biting her lip before amending, “And everyone.” Jane caught Brienne’s wrist in light fingers, pointing to the cracked door behind a sea of white. “Sansa needs you.”

Sansa peered around the frame, hair haloed in the bright light spilling from the hall.

“Thanks.” Brienne coaxed a suggestion of gratitude onto her tense features. The slim, dark haired girl returned a smile before slipping back toward the W’s.

Margaery still looked dissatisfied, but she nodded a promise to drop the subject, and Brienne’s smile relaxed by a fraction.

Soft, elegant music drifted from the ballroom, and the debutantes froze as one.

“Whoops,” Mel whispered, darting to the front of the line just in time for her name to crackle through the ballroom. She strode through the curtain in her slinky, sparkly white dress, careless and charismatic, like she could see beyond the quaint country club and its myopic crowd to the vast world beyond West Eros.

“ _Psst_. Brie.” Sansa motioned frantically, still anchored to the doorframe. Brienne’s pulse raced as the girls around her drifted forward, but she bit her lip and scooted toward the door.

“Is everything okay?”

Sansa tugged Brienne into the hall, peeking at the debutantes as Jill’s name resonated through the loudspeakers.

“You forgot this.” Delicate fingers cradled a familiar toy sword. Sansa had wrapped its hilt in a thick satin ribbon, adding a touch of grace to the otherwise bulky plastic. She paused, assessing Brienne’s appearance with an absent frown, and tied a small bow around the grip.

Brienne blinked, fingers clenching reflexively around the ghost of a hockey stick. For a moment, the polite, muffled clapping of cotillion seemed to echo laughter and applause. She could see Jaime’s grin, wry and encouraging in the soft light of the hallway.

“Sansa, I can’t _wear_ it.” The sword was her first date and Jaime’s faith in her, the will to fight and the support of two strong women. She couldn’t expose her sanity to the corrosion of titters and gossip, of girls who didn’t understand and didn’t want to.

Sansa graced her with a look that dubbed Brienne _terribly unromantic_. “It’s your favor,” she reminded, fluffing the ribbon and presenting the sword to Brienne, flat across her tiny palms like a monarch bestowing a blade on a knight. “To hearten you in battle.”

Brienne gave her a flat look. The girl lived and dreamed cotillion, and she’d taken to Brienne’s reticence like a general marshalling unwieldy troops.

“It’s not in dress code,” she argued.

“Neither is your gown.” Sansa touched the sash and smiled, all innocence and light.

Brienne’s dress was too tight across the ribs, pinned up at the bodice, and fell half an inch above her feet, even when she’d switched to flats. The fabric was close enough to white that Brienne hoped no one would notice the difference. Whoever Denise was, she was a designer, not a miracle worker.

Brienne crossed her arms, unmoved.

“Taena Merryweather.” The name rumbled past the curtain and into the hallway, stuttering along the carpet like a rock skipping down a frozen lake.

_Whore,_ came the echo, faint and caustic.

Brienne lifted her elbows, steeling herself as Sansa tied a deft knot at the small of her back. The weight at her hip was reassuring, solid. Her hand fell to the hilt, clutching the hollow plastic like a lifeline.

“Perfect,” the girl breathed, draping the ribbon artfully and smoothing it down Brienne’s back. She darted around, clearly pleased as she assessed the finished product.

Brienne brushed her fingers over her thigh. The fabric shimmered, oddly luminous against her pale skin and freckles as it flashed yellow and green and pink before fading back to white. The sword reflected silver and blue, dancing like a living thing on her hip.

She felt like some hulking creature, otherworldly and absurd.

“You look beautiful,” Sansa beamed, squeezing Brienne’s arm. “You’re going to do great.” She pushed her friend back through the door, where the line of debutantes was starting to dwindle.

Brienne swallowed, exhaling slowly. She curled her fingers around the plastic below her thigh, the blade cool and comforting along the inside of her arm. She picked apart her friend’s comment as she picked through the debs, discarding the cruel smiles that paired “Brienne” and “beautiful” to uncover the genuine sweetness of Sansa’s words.

She found her place as Bethany Rowan swept onstage, eliminating the gap between Brienne and the nightmarish crowd.

A smile flitted across Mar’s face as she glimpsed the adornment half hidden by shadow and skin. “You can do it alone,” she said softly. “Even if you shouldn’t have to.”

Brienne jerked her neck, not quite a nod, and watched Bethany descend the staircase at the end of the long runway. The world beyond the stage was gray and murky; at her games she always saw faces, spurring her onward with smiles and sneers.

“Brienne Tarth.”

Her heart seized, stuttered, pulse careening through her veins like a PeeWee hockey player losing control of his skates. The puck felt lodged in her throat.

“Head high,” Margaery murmured coolly. Warm, firm hands pressed Brienne forward.

She gathered her nausea and nerves like netting, heaving them into the sea as she breathed out a shaky sigh. Her fingers curled around the plastic sword, wondering if it would cause a sensation. Somehow she didn’t care.

She stepped into the light.

For a moment her world was white. She could almost imagine she was center-ice, squinting up at the AV kid who accidentally hit the spotlight. Spots danced before her eyes, and she moved on autopilot, pausing center-stage like she had in rehearsals. The boys behind the curtain caught her periphery, glancing around and snickering when no one came to meet her. Loras stood tall and striking, shoulders squared like he was in the gate and half convinced not to wait out the penalty kill. She forced herself to smile at him, unpeeled her fingers from the toy sword, and turned to face the faceless crowd.

“Brienne needs no escort,” pronounced Margaery’s grandmother crisply. Amusement feathered the speakers, a bare suggestion of the warmth that suffused her granddaughter’s every word. “Proving that women’s liberation is more than some fairytale I tell my granddaughters to help them sleep at night.”

Brienne felt her face grow tight and hot. She glanced at the wrinkled, regal woman making wry faces into the microphone. Olenna Tyrell paid her no mind, but somehow Brienne managed to propel her feet forward. The light pulsed brighter as she ambled down the runway; her pulse echoed in her ears.

“Brienne is a sophomore at West Eros High school . . .”

She forced herself not to dwell on the faces concealed in the crowd, cruel boys and disenchanted parents and the handful she called friends.

_Head high_ , she remembered. The pearlescence of her gown tangled in her periphery, now blue, now green, now white. Each scuff of her worn silver shoes felt like a whisper, too delicate to be hers. _Slow_ , Catelyn Stark’s voice echoed back to her, firm, phantom hands pressing on her broad shoulders. _Move like you mean it_ , Jaime teased in her thoughts.

Brienne counted her steps by each sway of the sword on her hip, moving whenever her fingers brushed plastic. She could barely hear Ms. Tyrell over the rush of blood in her ears.

“. . . an accomplished athlete and a natural leader . . .”

Her instincts told her to wince, but she muscled her smile higher instead, teeth digging against the soft flesh inside her bottom lip.

“. . . paradigm of virtue . . .”

_Whore._

Brienne winced, feet quickening despite her best efforts. Her breathing felt ragged through her fixed smile. At the last second she remembered to pause, foot hovering over empty air as she teetered at the end of the catwalk. Two cameras flashed, blinding her with prisms of color, and then her toes curled around the edge of the first step and it was done.

Her feet sank into the floor like carpet after a hard day of hockey, skates discarded behind her as she peeled off her pads. She clung to her collected bits of poise, shedding spotlight and expectation as she joined the line of couples on the floor. Fledgling success nuzzled her ribs as she finally turned her back on the crowd.

“Well that was refreshing,” Olenna mused. Her words bounced through the ballroom, half-stifled by the tinny echo of the sound system. “About time we had a warrior instead of a lady-in-waiting.” Brienne braced herself, waiting for the swivel of accusing eyes, but Ms. Tyrell was already announcing her granddaughter. “Margaery Tyrell, escorted by her dashing brother Loras.”

Brienne could barely blink before Margaery had glided to a stop beside her, capturing her arm as Loras grinned at them, and together they watched Ygritte and Jane and the handful of remaining girls make their debut. If Brienne focused on Loras she could almost pretend the pomp was just another practice, and the heavy eyes on her back were all in her head. She was so disengaged from the world that she forgot to panic when Ygritte descended the stairs.

“—accomplished women of society,” Ms. Tyrell concluded. Feedback squealed through the microphone, piercing Brienne’s spine. “And now the girls will display their mastery of gratuitous pageantry by performing a waltz.”

“You can have Loras if you’d like,” Mar whispered as the soft strains of music trickled through the loudspeakers.

Brienne glanced over her shoulder, seeing distinct faces for the first time. Her dad smiled proudly from a table towards the back; his girlfriend waved discreetly under a program. Margaery’s parents sat beside them snapping photos on an expensive looking camera. Tyrion stood on his chair several places to the left, one mismatched brow raised in challenge.

“Dance with your brother,” Brienne insisted. Maybe she could slip out of the room before anyone noticed.

Her teammate indicated a space behind her, curls rustling his collar as he shrugged. Brienne knew who she’d find there.

“If you want.” Loras fell into form with his sister, arms locking into place like a child’s puzzle as the notes hit their stride.

For a second she felt like a freshman, underdressed and embarrassed at spring formal, watching her default partner break away from the football crowd. Her feet were moving before her brain caught up with her.

“Renly.” His name scraped up her throat, trailing trust and betrayal, the unfamiliar solemnity in his face as he swore to fight for her honor.

Renly smiled, a familiar flash of white teeth and warm blue eyes. He offered her his arm, as charming as ever. Brienne cleared her throat, letting her hand fall to his shoulder. She clasped their fingers together as she had countless times before, for ballroom lessons and after hockey games, on dark nights when he was her only friend in the world.

She didn’t step closer. The delight in his eyes waned.

“Your dress makes a bold statement,” he noted, affecting a smile as he swept her onto the dance floor.

_Whore._

Brienne stumbled, almost losing her hold on him.

He caught her without missing a beat, a spark of amusement nestled in his eyes. “You never did master the art of receiving compliments.”

She glanced down, watching flashes of silver peek from beneath her slightly short gown. Cersei’s parting gift dug grooves in her chest like the blunt end of a needle.

 Her hand tightened on his, an old reflex.

Renly flashed her a reassuring smile. “I couldn’t be more proud that you’re pushing the bounds of fashion. Iridescent white, yet you’re wearing the whole rainbow. Superb. Did Loras help?” His eyes dropped to her waist, alight with curiosity. “And that sword!” Her elbow grazed the hilt, protective, and Renly winked. “Very edgy."

“It’s from Jaime,” she admitted. She tried to say more, but the words snagged on the bitter red threads interred within her chest.

“How romantic.” His lips twitched, contemplative. Brienne could all but hear his teasing: _Was that what finally tipped you off, or was it all the kissing?_ Renly buried his nosiness beneath casual courtesy. “You make a lovely couple.”

“Yeah.” She smiled halfheartedly, and they fell into an awkward silence.

Renly spun them slowly toward the stage, weaving in and out of the other couples until they disappeared from the sight of the crowd. Brienne drifted closer as she counted the rhythm of her feet, ignoring Loras’ pleased look as they danced past the Tyrells, who looked more like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire than teenagers at a cotillion ball. When the music finally faded Renly squeezed her hand and released her.

“I almost didn’t realize I was dancing with _you_.” The words could have been flippant or cruel or dismissive, but somehow Renly made them matter. “You’ve proved yourself equal to the task.”

“Thanks.” Brienne gathered a fistful of satin; let her gown slip through her hand like water. The fabric caressed the tiny hairs on top of her feet, and her toes jolted in her shoes. “For the dance.” She pinched the gown with her fingernails and met Renly’s eyes.

He smiled, a touch cautious, but proud.

Brienne felt her lips quirk up at the corners. “See you around,” she promised.

Renly’s smile broadened. “I believe it’s time to steal a dashing gentleman from his date,” he murmured, knowing as he always had that Brienne had nothing more to give. He left to find Loras, interrupting a conversation between the siblings to trail his fingers down his boyfriend’s lapel. The couple disappeared in record time, slipping behind an oversized urn Brienne was sure hadn’t been cracked before her last foxtrot lesson.

Margaery dodged the crowd, hooking her arm through Brienne’s and shaking her head good-naturedly. “Poor Loras. He inherited subtlety from Gran.” She rolled her eyes, pulling Brienne toward the tables. “Come on. Grandmother placed us together. Why don’t you introduce me to your dad?”

Brienne suspected Margaery would charm her father, and she was not disappointed.

“Thank you for taking Brienne under your wing.” Mr. Tarth smiled at the pretty debutante, rubbing Brienne’s arm proudly. His daughter heard the words left unsaid, words spanning “lonely” to “loved.”

“The pleasure was mine,” Margaery assured him. “Brienne is wonderful to have in your corner.” She caught her friend’s eye, smiling with a hint of mischief. “Whether she knows it or not.”

“She has a wicked slapshot, too.” Her dad’s girlfriend grinned. “Or so I hear.”

“We could find a rink,” Brienne offered, knowing it was futile even as the scent of freshly shaved ice assailed her senses, “if you want to learn.”

“You have to stay through dessert.” Sansa protested, materializing out of the crowd to latch onto Brienne. Another light sparked in Selwyn Tarth’s eyes. Brienne sighed, fond and exasperated, when Sansa tweaked the ribbon at her waist. “They’re making lemon cakes.”

“For the guests,” a familiar voice admonished from behind. Mrs. Stark leaned close to Brienne’s ear, murmuring, “I don’t know who was more surprised you wore the sword, Olenna or Jo.” She patted her pupil’s shoulder and retreated, absently tucking an escaped lock back into Sansa’s sweeping auburn updo.

Brienne forced herself to smile, swallowing thickly.

“Mr. Tarth.” Sansa’s mom smiled, offering a hand to Brienne’s father. “Your daughter has worked doggedly to get here today and earned every praise. It’s been an honor to watch her blossom these last few months.”

He clasped her hand firmly, swelling with thanks as his daughter struggled to make herself smaller. “Thank you for mothering her,” he joked a little awkwardly.

Brienne’s throat felt suddenly tight. She breathed a sigh of relief when her dad’s girlfriend caught her eye, smiled sympathetically, and steered the adults toward the champagne.

“Hang onto her, Brienne,” Margaery winked, squeezing her fingers lightly.

Brienne smiled wearily, sinking gracelessly into a chair. “What now?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, but the giddy smile lifting her cheeks spoiled the impatience. “Now we have _fun_.” She found a seat beside Brienne, heels tapping rhythmically to the ambiance of the ballroom.

“Now,” Margaery said, glancing across the room and standing suddenly straighter, “I need to rescue my future brother-in-law from our dear friend Mel.”

Sure enough, Stannis sat at a table near the door, looking equal parts enraptured and perturbed by the vivacious debutante in the sparkling dress. Margaery floated across the floor with all the purpose of a homing missile.

Brienne and Sansa watched her go. The buzz of a cell phone jolted them back to reality.

Sansa snatched it off the table, biting her grin as she coyly announced, “Yours.”

Brienne fumbled with the phone, fully aware of who had texted her. Her blood felt warm in her veins as she opened Jaime’s message.

_That sword is doing wonders for your eyes. ;)_

For a heartbeat she couldn’t breathe. Her blood frothed like hot chocolate and whipped cream, oozing down her chest and spreading through the hollow pit of her stomach.

“Brienne?” Sansa looked worried.

Brienne whipped around, heart skating complicated maneuvers in her chest. She scanned the crowd once, twice, breathing like she’d just finished the first practice of the season.

“Brienne, are you okay?” The words sounded faint beneath the roaring in her ears.

On her third pass of the ballroom, Brienne’s gaze snagged on Tyrion Lannister balancing on a bar chair. He sighed when he caught sight of her, waving his phone and offering her an apologetic smile.

Brienne’s stomach dropped to her toes. She shoved aside her disappointment to glare halfheartedly, one hand threatening the handle of her toy sword. Tyrion shrugged, grinning wickedly as he captured her glower in all its pixelated glory. She could almost hear his self-satisfied chuckle as he manipulated the touch screen, playing paparazzi for his big brother.

Brienne hauled herself to her feet, dropping her phone to the table. It clattered into the forks and spun under the rim of a plate. Brienne winced and started for the door.

“Where are we going?” Sansa called, untangling her impractical shoes from the tablecloth and darting after her.

“I don’t know,” Brienne muttered as her friend caught up.

Sansa looked over her shoulder, suddenly shifty. “Arya has some friends in the kitchens.” She pointed discreetly to one of the many service doors, crossing her arms and fidgeting with her strap in an attempt to look inconspicuous.

Sansa snagged Brienne’s arm the moment she nodded, bustling them across the ballroom and into the kitchens like her dress was on fire. Arya had declared loudly that afternoon that she was hitchhiking home, but the middle schooler sat on the stainless steel countertop, legs dangling as she made faces at two boys in uniform.

“Brienne!” Her teammate hollered so enthusiastically that Brienne started. “Take no prisoners!”

She lifted a shoulder and let it drop. Renly’s Cousin the Busboy slipped Sansa a slice of lemon cake, and Brienne fought a smile.

“Doofus,” Arya muttered, which meant something like ‘thank you’ in Arya-speak. “Brienne, you can drive, right? Can I get a lift outta this hell-hole? 

“Sorry.” Brienne accepted a hot chunk of bread from a short guy in a chef’s hat, feeling slightly guilty for pilfering food. Her stomach growled loudly and she realized just how long it had been since she’d eaten. “I’m not allowed to leave.”

“Some people take their responsibilities seriously,” Sansa sniffed.

Arya grumbled something rude. Sansa snapped a quick retort. The girls descended into bickering, and the kitchen staff moved around them like they were open cabinet doors. Brienne exhaled a chuckle when the dark-haired guy pushed Arya down the counter instead of reaching around her. Arya kicked his leg, never losing a beat. Sansa dressed her down for it, but Renly’s cousin kept clattering bowls and trays into place like nothing had happened.

Brienne ate while the sisters argued, grateful for the respite from pretty manners and watching eyes. The clamor of the kitchens soothed her like the chatter of polite society never would. She almost felt equipped to face cotillion by the time the servers started loading their trays. She pulled Sansa through the door, breaking up a burgeoning fight between the sisters that probably would have resulted in more than one spilled meal.

“There you are,” her dad’s girlfriend called as Sansa peeled off to find her mom. The brunette turned as she and Brienne crossed paths, casually escorting the deb across the ballroom. “There’s a girl asking questions,” the woman divulged without fuss. “Your friend Margaery doesn’t like her lurking.”

Brienne glimpsed Margaery’s polished, no-nonsense expression as she foisted Taena off on Tyrion. From the look on Taena’s face, the witticisms blocking her approach weren’t nearly as charitable as Margaery’s manners.

“You might want to hang onto this.” The pretty woman tucked a clunky shape into Brienne’s palm. Brienne clenched her hand, and the hard edges of her phone dug into her skin. “God am I glad we didn’t have instant messaging in high school.”

Tyrion finally wrested the cheerleader away, and Brienne did her best to appear unaffected as she joined the Tarth-Tyrell table for dinner. For all of Taena’s suspicious behavior, the meal passed uneventfully. Margaery regaled her parents with exaggerated deportment disasters anytime Brienne hesitated over her silverware. Mr. Tarth got along decently with the Tyrells, and his girlfriend dispelled the tension when Mr. Tyrell made an offhand comment about the pointlessness of print media. Brienne ate sparingly, grateful that she’d already satisfied her stomach with warm bread and finger food.

Soon enough the guests rose to meander toward the dance floor or cluster by the dessert bar, leaving the caterers to remove the vestiges of their meal. Brienne’s dad ran into an old colleague, who made polite conversation with Brienne for several minutes before coaxing her dad and his girlfriend away for a drink.

“We’ve got to find your grandmother for a photo,” Mr. Tyrell declared for the fourth time, hauling himself to his feet and gesturing his wife and daughter to follow. “Where’s your brother gotten to?”

“I’ll find him,” Margaery offered smoothly. She threw a look over her shoulder, verifying that Taena was occupied before murmuring, “Be back in a few.”

Brienne didn’t mind. She sank deeper into her chair, watching streaks of white and black weave through the crowd, accentuated by the neutral gowns of the cotillion committee and the odd explosion of red or purple. She glimpsed Sansa, who looked absolutely enthralled as her mom spoke with ladies so poised they had to be Junior League board members. Ygritte slipped out a side door, and Jon tripped after her two heartbeats later.

Brienne smiled faintly, fiddling with the bow at her waist.

Rough knuckles brushed between her shoulder blades as someone latched onto her chair. Brienne jerked, careening a tumbler of melting ice into a votive candle in the centerpiece. The _hiss_ of water meeting flame resonated in the grating feeling clawing up her spine.

“Never thought I’d live to see you in a dress.”

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaand . . . the cliffhanger is all Isy's fault. I was going to give you a nice boring ending in the kitchens. Direct your hate mail to fabulous[dot]beta[at]fandom[dot]com.
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated!


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